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III
Vera screamed. She screamed and screamed—screams of the utmost ter-
ror—wild desperate cries for help.
She did not hear the sounds from below, of a chair being overturned, of
a door opening, of men’s feet running up the stairs. She was conscious
only of supreme terror.
Then, restoring her sanity, lights flickered in the doorway—candles—
men hurrying into the room.
‘What the devil?’ ‘What’s happened?’ ‘Good God, what is it?’
She shuddered, took a step forward, collapsed on the floor.
She was only half aware of someone bending over her, of someone for-
cing her head down between her knees.
Then at a sudden exclamation, a quick ‘My God, look at that!’ her senses
returned. She opened her eyes and raised her head. She saw what it was
the men with the candles were looking at.
A broad ribbon of wet seaweed was hanging down from the ceiling. It
was that which in the darkness had swayed against her throat. It was that
which she had taken for a clammy hand, a drowned hand come back from
the dead to squeeze the life out of her!
She began to laugh hysterically. She said:
‘It was seaweed—only seaweed—and that’s what the smell was…’
And then the faintness came over her once more—waves upon waves of
sickness. Again someone took her head and forced it between her knees.
Aeons of time seemed to pass. They were offering her something to
drink—pressing the glass against her lips. She smelt brandy.
She was just about to gulp the spirit gratefully down when, suddenly, a
warning note—like an alarm bell—sounded in her brain. She sat up, push-
ing the glass away.
She said sharply: ‘Where did this come from?’
Blore’s voice answered. He stared a minute before speaking. He said:
‘I got it from downstairs.’
Vera cried:
‘I won’t drink it…’
There was a moment’s silence, then Lombard laughed.
He said with appreciation:
‘Good for you, Vera. You’ve got your wits about you—even if you have
been scared half out of your life. I’ll get a fresh bottle that hasn’t been
opened.’
He went swiftly out.
Vera said uncertainly:
‘I’m all right now. I’ll have some water.’
Armstrong supported her as she struggled to her feet. She went over to
the basin, swaying and clutching at him for support. She let the cold tap
run and then filled the glass.
Blore said resentfully:
‘That brandy’s all right.’
Armstrong said:
‘How do you know?’
Blore said angrily:
‘I didn’t put anything in it. That’s what you’re getting at I suppose.’
Armstrong said:
‘I’m not saying you did. You might have done, or someone might have
tampered with the bottle for just this emergency.’
Lombard came swiftly back into the room.
He had a new bottle of brandy in his hands and a corkscrew.
He thrust the sealed bottle under Vera’s nose.
‘There you are, my girl. Absolutely no deception.’ He peeled off the tin
foil and drew the cork. ‘Lucky there’s a good supply of spirits in the house.
Thoughtful of U. N. Owen.’
Vera shuddered violently.
Armstrong held the glass while Philip poured the brandy into it. He said:
‘You’d better drink this, Miss Claythorne. You’ve had a nasty shock.’
Vera drank a little of the spirit. The colour came back to her face.
Philip Lombard said with a laugh:
‘Well, here’s one murder that hasn’t gone according to plan!’
Vera said almost in a whisper:
‘You think—that was what was meant?’
Lombard nodded.
‘Expected you to pass out through fright! Some people would have,
wouldn’t they, doctor?’
Armstrong did not commit himself. He said doubtfully:
‘H’m, impossible to say. Young healthy subject—no cardiac weakness.
Unlikely. On the other hand—’
He picked up the glass of brandy that Blore had brought. He dipped a
finger in it, tasted it gingerly. His expression did not alter. He said dubi-
ously: ‘H’m, tastes all right.’
Blore stepped forward angrily. He said:
‘If you’re saying that I tampered with that, I’ll knock your ruddy block
off.’
Vera, her wits revived by the brandy, made a diversion by saying:
‘Where’s the judge?’
The three men looked at each other.
‘That’s odd…Thought he came up with us.’
Blore said:
‘So did I…What about it, doctor, you came up the stairs behind me?’
Armstrong said:
‘I thought he was following me…Of course, he’d be bound to go slower
than we did. He’s an old man.’
They looked at each other again.
Lombard said:
‘It’s damned odd…’
Blore cried:
‘We must look for him.’
He started for the door. The others followed him, Vera last.
As they went down the stairs Armstrong said over his shoulder:
‘Of course he may have stayed in the living-room.’
They crossed the hall. Armstrong called out loudly:
‘Wargrave, Wargrave, where are you?’
There was no answer. A deadly silence filled the house apart from the
gentle patter of the rain.
Then in the entrance to the drawing- room door, Armstrong stopped
dead. The others crowded up and looked over his shoulder.
Somebody cried out.
Mr Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed chair at the end of
the room. Two candles burnt on either side of him. But what shocked and
startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet with a
judge’s wig upon his head…
Dr Armstrong motioned to the others to keep back. He himself walked
across to the silent staring figure, reeling a little as he walked like a
drunken man.
He bent forward, peering into the still face. Then, with a swift move-
ment he raised the wig. It fell to the floor revealing the high bald forehead
with, in the very middle, a round stained mark from which something had
trickled.
Dr Armstrong lifted the lifeless hand and felt for the pulse. Then he
turned to the others.
He said—and his voice was expressionless, dead, far away…
‘He’s been shot…’
Blore said:
‘God—the revolver!’
The doctor said, still in the same lifeless voice:
‘Got him through the head. Instantaneous.’
Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice shook with horror:
‘Miss Brent’s missing grey wool…’
Blore said:
‘And the scarlet curtain that was missing from the bathroom…’
Vera whispered:
‘So this is what they wanted them for…’
Suddenly Philip Lombard laughed—a high unnatural laugh.
‘Five little soldier boys going in for law; one got in Chancery and then there
were Four. That’s the end of Mr Bloody Justice Wargrave. No more pro-
nouncing sentence for him! No more putting on of the black cap! Here’s
the last time he’ll ever sit in court! No more summing up and sending in-
nocent men to death. How Edward Seton would laugh if he were here!
God, how he’d laugh!’
His outburst shocked and startled the others.
Vera cried:
‘Only this morning you said he was the one!’
Philip Lombard’s face changed—sobered.
He said in a low voice:
‘I know I did…Well, I was wrong. Here’s one more of us who’s been
proved innocent—too late!’
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